


Not In Our Stars

by boxparade



Series: All Our Yesterdays: The Codas [5]
Category: Panic At The Disco
Genre: Grief/Mourning, Kid Fic, M/M, Military, New Year's Eve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-23
Updated: 2012-03-23
Packaged: 2017-11-02 09:55:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/367718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boxparade/pseuds/boxparade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Spencer showed up four weeks after his own funeral, he’d missed Christmas, not that there was much of a Christmas to be had, that year.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not In Our Stars

**Author's Note:**

> A scene from [All Our Yesterdays](http://archiveofourown.org/works/335810), set shortly after Spencer's homecoming.

When Spencer showed up four weeks after his own funeral, he’d missed Christmas, not that there was much of a Christmas to be had, that year. Brendon didn’t decorate—couldn’t find it in him—so he bought a shitty little tree from the lot down the street and let Emily and Jake throw some sparkly shit on it. He did the whole Santa thing, because it was important to the kids, and they both laughed and buried themselves in the wrapping paper, and then Brendon let it just fade into the past, because thinking about holidays like this, for years to come, just the three of them with a big, gaping hole under the tree where Spencer’s presents should be—well…

But then Spencer had showed up, and they all kind of forgot about the world for a couple days because they were busy making sure Spencer was _real,_ and alive, and here.

Somewhere in that blurry whirlwind, though, there was a recognition that New Year’s was in a day, and so Brendon tried to pull his shit together for a few damn hours so that maybe New Year’s could make up for their shitty Christmas.

Spencer goes along with it—lets Brendon buy a nice bottle of champagne, attempt to cook some sort of seafood thing for them, fish sticks for the kids. They buy lobsters, but Emily starts bawling when they ask her if she wants to put one into the pot of boiling water, so they don’t cook them until she’s in the other room and they’ve put up an elaborate façade of releasing them into the pond in the backyard. Spencer laughs and mocks Brendon for at least a half hour, and Brendon hopes like hell the boiling water gets rid of any traces of weird algae from the pond.

He makes damn sure Emily believes him when he pulls out the lobsters, fully-cooked and bright red, saying they’re _pretend_ lobsters, the kind for eating and not the same ones they released into the pond an hour ago. Luckily, she accepts this, albeit warily, and goes back to happily munching on her fish sticks. He makes sure not to tell her she’s eating a real animal, because she’s determined enough that she might just call up PETA (if her four-year-old thumbs could figure out the numbers) and have them both arrested for murdering Rainbow Fish.

They let Jake dip his fish sticks in Nutella, which means that Spencer worries about his sanity for a bit, Brendon has to drag Dylan outside by his collar before he starts licking up the fingerprint marks of hazelnut-infused chocolate all over the place, and Jake climbs the walls like Spiderman for the next three hours, the Gods of Sugar smiting him for some strange reason.

Things _finally_ start to settle down when it hits 10, the sugar has been washed out of Jake’s system, and it’s long enough past Emily’s bedtime that even the festivities and shenanigans of her older brother can’t keep her eyes open. She winds up knocked out, sprawled over Spencer on the couch, mouth open and drooling onto his flannel pajamas. Brendon takes pictures—ignores the way his eyes get blurry when he abruptly realizes that they’re the first pictures they’ve taken with Spencer in them since he shipped out—and turns into Spencer’s personal servant for the next hour and a half, because there’s no way either of them are waking their little girl, and Spencer wants Mai Tais.

Jake is down for the count a half hour after Emily, babbling on about something and playing with his Tonka truck from Christmas one minute, the next, he’s slumped over the coffee table, like he’s narcoleptic. Brendon picks him up and moves him to the couch, keeps his head on his lap, carding gentle fingers through his hair and trying to hold on to this moment, because it feels fragile and fleeting, but it’s perfect.

They wake the kids up when it gets close enough to the countdown—they haven’t in years past, and they probably won’t again until the kids are old enough to stay up that late of their own accord, but this last week has called for some pretty out-of-the-ordinary behavior, so.

Emily grumbles and calls them both “meanie-heads” but she rubs at her eyes and sits up tiredly, hair flying all over the place and bouncing. Jake is a bit more enthusiastic, asking “Didda missit, Papa?” in a sleep-slurred voice. Brendon assures him no, he didn’t miss a thing, and by the time the countdown starts on the television, all four of them are yelling out the numbers happily.

“Ten, nine,” Brendon grabs Jake around the middle before he propels himself into the television and cracks his head open, “eight, seven,” Emily pushes herself up in Spencer’s lap by grabbing a handful of his hair—though Brendon has no idea how she gets a grip, with it so short—and Spencer’s _six_ turns into “SHI–IX, ow, five,” and Brendon’s laughing so hard by _four_ that it sounds a lot more like “f-h-h-whore-ha, three,” Jake and Emily grab each other’s hands, and then Brendon and Spencer grab theirs, then each other’s “two,” Brendon looks over at Spencer, grinning so hard his cheeks are burning, though that could be from the blushing or the alcohol.

“One” has them throwing their hands up in the air and trying not to bend over in pain when Jake knees him in a very unfortunate place, in his excitement to stand up.

But he still manages to shout “HAAAAPPY NEW YEAR” with the rest of them, giggling like mad, watching as Jake climbs up onto the coffee table and starts doing a little dance. Emily tries to follow but Spencer grabs her and hauls her back into his lap, letting her squirm out a dance there, instead, so she doesn’t wind up falling.

Brendon grabs the champagne from the ice bucket in the kitchen, along with two glasses, and Emily and Jake both clap when Spencer pops off the cork with a loud _bang_ and it flies up and hits the ceiling. Emily clutches it in her palm and won’t let go, even though her fingers are going to smell like grape tomorrow morning.

Brendon tries to figure out how to say _It’s okay_ without words, because he didn’t miss the flinch of discomfort at the sound of the cork popping, but Spencer’s fine by the time Brendon hands him a glass of champagne.

Jake insists on trying some of it, though Brendon firmly protests, but then he takes a sip, scrunches up his nose, and says “Ewwww, that’s gross.” Brendon doesn’t try to hide the rush of relief he feels.

Then it’s like watching Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz, when they all wander into the poppy field and promptly fall asleep. Emily curls up back on Spencer’s lap, not that he’s protesting, though she’s shifted so she’s on her opposite side. Jake squiggles himself in next to Brendon, and a few minutes later he declares “Okay, sleep now, new year later” before he drops off with his head on the arm of the couch.

Brendon tries to keep his laughs quiet so he doesn’t wake Jake, though that boy could sleep through a train wreck, he swears. They turn off the TV and it’s strangely quiet, but calm and soothing, sitting there in the dim lighting from the amber bulbs on dim over the kitchen table behind them. Brendon asks, softly, “First kiss of the new year?” and Spencer smiles and leans over so they can press their lips together, chaste but sweet.

It’s—there aren’t any words Brendon can use to describe this, to quantify the feelings in his chest, or the tingling through his whole body. If he had to describe it, he’d say it feels like breathing, but breathing for the first time, or something. That strange inexplicable knowledge that you’re _alive,_ you’re real.

That’s the one feeling that hasn’t given up the ghost yet, still surprises him at random times, when he turns and Spencer’s just _there,_ right there, and he breathes out and thinks _Oh._ Because Spencer is _alive,_ and he’s right there, and it still catches him off guard at the weirdest times. He’s almost gotten used to waking up with another body pressed along his, knows that it’s okay to relax and take more than a five-minute shower because there’s someone else there to watch the kids. He’s started asking Spencer to pour the orange juice, or put the kids to bed, or call his mother back, because he’s there and it’s just so normal that Brendon doesn’t even really think about it.

But there are those moments, those little-big moments, where he’ll turn and Spencer will be right where he was just _seconds_ ago, and Brendon will catch his breath and wait as all the air leaves the room, because it’s Spencer, _his_ Spencer, and he’s right there. Close enough to touch, or just look, and Brendon’s finding beauty in negative spaces, in the oddest places. The tip of Spencer’s ear, or the press of the counter into his hip when he leans against it, or the hazy outlines of his bare feet when he steps out of the shower and everything’s still all steamed up and wet.

It’s _ridiculous,_ and Brendon needs to stop being such a sap about this whole thing, because he married military and he’s already used up a lifetime’s worth of tears in these past few months.

But–

“You have to walk Emily down the aisle,” Brendon says quickly, startling Spencer from his relaxed, sleepy state. Spencer looks over at him and blinks, then looks down at Emily curled in his lap, then back up at Brendon.

“What, right now?”

Brendon shakes his head, and his heart flutters at the smile on Spencer’s face. “No, I mean. When she gets married. God forbid some punk take her away from us, but just—you’re doing it. If she gets married.”

Spencer cocks an eyebrow at him, and silent question, and Brendon’s not feeling quite so frantic anymore now that he’s got that off his chest, so he explains. “I—when I thought you were gone.” He still can’t say ‘dead’ and he’s beginning to think Spencer notices.

“I…maybe had a couple break downs. You know, one or two,” he says, blushing. Spencer’s giving him a _no, really?_ look and Brendon’s glad, that even after all this time, he’s still Spencer—sarcasm and all. “And I—it was the middle of the day, right after we heard the news, and I dropped Emily’s Winnie the Pooh cup while I was washing it–” Spencer snorts, because yeah, that’s an extraneous detail, but it feels important. It feels like it holds weight.

“And I just—It was all just there, everything that was going to happen, like I’d absorbed the freaking TARDIS or something, and I could see _everything_ and I was alone, it was just me, me and an empty seat, watching our kids grow up and leave, to go be happy and I was just—I didn’t have anyone, and I didn’t know if I could do that, if I—”

“Bren,” Spencer says quietly.

“No, listen, just. You have to understand, okay, there’s _so much._ So much, Spence. And it’s awesome and happy and wonderful and it’s seriously the best thing ever but I just—you have to be there, you have to because otherwise it’s not—it won’t be the same, and I’ll be—I can’t—”

“Bren, hey.”

“You can’t leave me again.”

Maybe it’s the _again_ that does it, or maybe it’s the way Brendon’s voice is fucking wrecked, or maybe it’s the fact that he feels like he has to run somewhere, just, do something, or get away or stay here, and his heart just keeps pumping in his chest telling him to _move,_ to _be,_ and he just—

“I won’t,” Spencer cuts in, strongly, and a hand curls around the back of Brendon’s head and turns him toward Spencer, thumb working circular patterns into the hair behind his ear. “I won’t leave you,” he says, makes sure Brendon hears it, sees it, feels it, breathes it. And he does. “Now can you calm down, or do I have to wake Emily up and get you a paper bag to breathe into again?”

“I—” Brendon tries, and then decides that talking is going to take the backseat to breathing normally. He nods sharply, and Spencer relaxes a bit, tension ebbing out of his shoulders as Brendon deflates, but he’s back again just as quick. “And if we ever take the kids to Chicago in the winter, you have to go teach them how to build snowmen and—and you need to teach Emily how to ride a bike, she’s getting to that age, right? And you should talk to Jake about girls, because I don’t know _anything_ and he’s going to have questions, and you dated that one girl back before us, and then you have to—”

Spencer takes his hand and cuffs Brendon on the back of the head, sharply, and says “Shut up.”

Brendon wants to keep going, because Spencer needs to _understand,_ but he just stops, and looks at Spencer, and he’s being _stupid_ because of course, Spencer gets it. He gets it, and he’s going to be there for all those things, it’s not like he won’t want to, not like there’s a power on heaven or Earth that could keep him from his daughter’s wedding. So Brendon shuts up, tells the hummingbird bouncing around in his rib cage to quit it, watches Spencer and those blue eyes, the ones his young, dumb, and in-love self fell into, drowned in.

“And you’re totally giving Jake the sex talk.”

Spencer pales, and his eyes widen as he searches Brendon’s face, like _Are you fucking kidding me?_ and Brendon just grins wickedly, and gets another whack at the back on the back of the head for his trouble.

“Then you’re doing it for Emily.”

Brendon narrows his eyes, but says “Deal. Jake’s a guy, he’s going to ask about all the gross stuff, anyway.”

Brendon watches in abject terror as Spencer just curls his lips into this cat-like, predatory grin, and Brendon should’ve seen this coming a mile away, “Yeah, but Emily’s going to ask about _periods._ ”

Brendon feels himself go white as a sheet and stop breathing, and Spencer just cackles quietly, and Brendon goes “I take it back! I’ll tell Jake, you can—”

“Nope, we had a deal,” Spencer says playfully.

“But, but—But I don’t _know anything_ about girls,” Brendon whines, finally. They keep their voices pitched low because the kids are asleep and they’re right here, but they’re both so exhausted that Brendon doesn’t think it’ll make much of a difference.

“And I do?”

“You dated one!” Brendon argues defiantly.

“Yeah, for a month. In _high school._ I never even got her pants off, it’s not like I know anything.”

“I—” Brendon stops because he doesn’t have an argument, not even an idea of where to take this one. “We can ask your mom,” he hedges. Because Ginger is a girl, and she knows these things, and she’s been a mom _forever,_ she’s already dealt with all the awkwardness and stuff. She knows what she’s doing.

But fear strikes Spencer’s eyes, flashing bright and hot like lightning, and he asks “Do you remember how she gave me the sex talk?” Brendon shakes his head _no,_ and immediately regrets it, because there’s no way this is anything less than—“She gathered up all the porn in the house and _dumped it in front of me._ While I was doing my homework. Then she proceeded to point at things and explained them. I was _eight,_ Bren. _Eight._ ”

“Okay,” Brendon says, rushed and panicked, “okay, never mind, no way. We’ll—we’ll ask someone else, or just, I don’t know. Just not that. I don’t think we can afford those therapy bills.”

“Yeah,” Spencer agrees in a breath, relaxing a bit now that they’ve both decided not to mentally scar their children for life. At least not intentionally.

“We kind of screwed ourselves in the girl department, huh?” Brendon says after a bit, and laughs when Spencer nods solemnly. “Well, hey, we’ve still got a few more years. You think Ryan could get us into a threesome if we paid him in 5-Hour Energies?”

Spencer seemed to actually consider this for a moment, and then made a face—ridiculous and obviously grossed out, and Brendon’s heart warmed because he could still do this, wasn’t so broken from the war that he couldn’t remember how to smile—and said “I think…I might be gay, after all.”

Brendon gives him a skeptical look, and Spencer shrugs. “Don’t ask me, but I think being married to you for so damn long has poisoned my brain. The thought of doing anything with a woman is suddenly _extremely_ unappealing.”

“Even if I’m there?” Brendon asks, as if this is even a remote possibility—it isn’t. It’d be too weird, for one, and Brendon thinks he might die of embarrassment if they _ever_ asked Ryan for that kind of favor.

“Great, so then _all three of us_ can be traumatized. No thanks.”

Brendon laughs, lets it roll over him, the love and the laughter and the familiarity and everything. They’re doing okay, he thinks. They’ve got this, now—they’re here and they’ve got the kids and the house and they’ve got this, the easy banter, the loaded looks that hold so much more. It’s all so much more than love, is the thing. Brendon always hears people talking about love as everything, as the be-all end-all of emotion, but just love doesn’t give off that certain kind of fondness. It’s the little things, the jokes and the history and the logic behind their actions—that’s what makes them. Jake and Emily and Spencer and Brendon.

That’s what makes them. And there it is again, hitting him like a freight train—he has this. He has Spencer, right here, and he has this—their family, whole, together, just holding on. It’s—he laughs, because this is what his parents never _got_ about family, this is the reason he and Spencer are here, in this together. Because they _get it._ They get it _._

It’s everything.

**Author's Note:**

> "The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars,  
> But in ourselves, that we are underlings."  
> —William Shakespeare


End file.
